


Walled In With Eagle's Wings

by reine_des_corbeaux



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Genre: Anal Sex, Captivity, Dark, Dehumanization, M/M, unwanted arousal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:02:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/pseuds/reine_des_corbeaux
Summary: Ganymede tries to tell himself that it's an honor to be Zeus's new plaything, but it certainly doesn't feel that way.
Relationships: Ganymede/Zeus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 135
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	Walled In With Eagle's Wings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidetic/gifts).



It is an honor to be taken. 

It is an honor to feel an eagle’s claws strongly clasped around your waist, digging rough ridges into your fragile skin, red lines of blood gouged against your ribs. It will be an honor to feel the rough pressure of a god’s member between your thighs as he takes his pleasure from your body. It is an honor to be a pretty thing, to have a god’s favor. 

So Ganymede tells himself. 

He paces like a caught thing in his cage in the hours before dawn. The sun rises pink and the night fades purple as a bruise across the world, and here on Olympos he wakes alone. He grasps the precious few moments and runs a finger through his golden hair, wonders what his life would be like if he were ugly, or at least below the notice of a god. Surely, it would not be days of gold and alabaster, nectar and ambrosia brought to gods who scarcely notice him, or else they leer. 

“Avert your eyes,” Hebe told him when she showed him how to pour the nectar (delicately, with a coquettish flutter of the eyelashes. Don’t speak. You are many sordid things, but none of them require clever remarks. What need have you for words?). She is his only friend here, and yet she too thinks he is honored. “Don’t look at us in our state until you are one of us. If you become one of us.” 

She wrapped herself in her shawl and hurried away into the greying dawn, back to her grand husband, mortal once when he was young and loved another woman not gifted to him by the gods. Ganymede flees from him, as he tries to flee from anyone who notices his loveliness. His life, before and after, has taught him one thing: trust no men, and trust no gods. He keeps to himself most days, when Hebe does not follow him to a dark corner, run her fingers through his hair, and calm his wracking sobs. He knows what will happen to him, even if it has not happened yet. 

Three days, and still the god does not show his face. Three days of wishing, training, lying in a bower of sweet-smelling flowers and fine cloth. Three days, and three endless, endless nights. Ganymede will be the cupbearer to the gods, and an ornament for the bed of Zeus. This is not a question. So he paces, and watches the day cycle by, and he waits. 

***

In the summer-smelling golden hour, the nymphs come and bathe him, washing away the blood the eagle drew, and rubbing him with perfumed oils. They wash his golden hair and tie it back, arranging it in delicate curls that frame his face. He lets them do it, lets them scrub him clean, numb and waiting. Ganymede knows why they want him proper. Zeus doesn’t want to fuck a screaming, filthy, shepherd-princeling who smells of sheep and the sweat of the hunt. That’s why the nymphs cleaned him on that first day, when he was still numb with shock, because Zeus wants the most beautiful boy in the world, spread out and willing, surrounded by flowers. 

The nymphs prepare the fantasy as they have prepared it every night, dressing him in linen so white and sheer that every outline of Ganymede’s body is only slightly shaded. They ring his eyes with kohl, rearrange his curls one final time, and leave him for Zeus as the night falls. 

Zeus comes with the darkness, enormous and shadowed, lightning eyes flashing. Ganymede shivers. His voice dies in his throat, and the summer warmth is gone from his room, where the air bites cold now, thick with rain and storms. He cannot speak. The air of godhood steals his breath, and Zeus speaks loud enough for both. 

“Come, my Ganymede.” 

Ganymede steps forward, trembling, into shadowed, strong hands that lift him easily as eagles’ talons, and carry him to his bed. He squeezes shut his eyes, and feels the softness of cloth beneath him, the same gentle hands peeling his clothing away. He knows what to expect. It has become a pattern, this waiting and praying and hoping against hope that tonight will be the night that Zeus tires of him and lets him go. 

“Why do you shut your eyes, lovely creature?” the god asks. Even his quietest voice booms loudly around Ganymede. 

“I dare not see your godly aspect,” he replies, his voice small, weak, and lost. 

“I will not show it to you yet,” says Zeus, and Ganymede reluctantly opens his eyes to see dark hair, bright eyes, shadows like roiling stormclouds even around a mortal-shaped man. 

The king of the gods is gentle, or as close to gentle as he can be, as he removes Ganymede’s tunic, leaving him naked but for the flowers in his hair. Ganymede tries to look to the side and see the sunset fading, but Zeus pulls his head forward, brings him into a smothering kiss. The lips of gods taste much like the lips of men, and they are just as eager to take. But he can’t scream at a god’s touch the way he can at the unwanted touch of a mortal, nor can he cast off one who he does not desire. 

Zeus pulls away, leaving Ganymede breathless and gasping, the unfamiliar taste of a god’s tongue still lingering in his mouth. He runs a hand across Ganymede’s chest, stopping to delicately pinch and twist his unprotected nipple. The sweet shock of pain runs down Ganymede’s core to his cock, and nausea follows only seconds later. He can’t do this. He cannot bear this touch. 

“I’ve wanted you,” Zeus says, “since I first saw you tending your sheep. Since I first saw you hunting. Your beauty was wasted on mortals, but I can give you immortality. Even protect you from my wife. Put you in fine things, and even make you happy.” 

He gives Ganymede’s nipple another parting pinch, and Ganymede moans guiltily. Zeus seems to like that as he grabs one of Ganymede’s hands and presses a kiss to the palm. Ganymede tries not to think as Zeus takes both his wrists and pins them above his head. One massive hand spans both his wrists. 

_Just lie here and be beautiful. That’s all he wants. It’s all he’ll ever want. Be the perfect beloved—pure and undesiring, and you will have done your duty well._

His legs are splayed across the bed, indecent, lascivious, and all too revealing. 

He should not be surprised when Zeus penetrates him with a single godly finger, working his way inside, but he is all the same. The shame shocks him with its fierceness, and the fierceness of his own disgust shocks him too. Somehow, he’d thought that Zeus would continue to take him like a beloved, like the freeborn youth he is, and not ravish him like a whore. He laughs, too harsh and too loud. This was inevitable. He’s nothing more than the god’s toy. Ganymede, who was a prince, is now a pretty plaything. 

“Pleasure already, my darling?” Zeus asks, and Ganymede wants to weep. Instead, he cries out when Zeus shoves another finger into his hole. And another. 

Just when he thinks he’s about to sob or scream, Zeus takes pity, pulls his slick fingers from Ganymede’s arse, and flips him over as easily as if he were a doll. Ganymede lies there for a moment, face buried in perfumed bedsheets, breathing in the scent of clean linen. And then Zeus is pulling his hips back, inspecting his arse all over again. There’s something nudging at his hole. And then Zeus is plunging in, pulling him apart with pain. 

The feeling’s all wrong, the hot friction like lightning, and instead of the tenderness Ganymede always thought his first lover would bestow upon him, there is only rhythmic, thrusting pain. Zeus doesn’t want to give him pleasure, he thinks. He only wants to take pleasure from what is his. And Ganymede is his now. 

He cries out, miserable with it all, and Zeus laughs, presses kisses to his neck, calls him precious and beautiful, and all the while drives forward in his quest for release. Ganymede wonders how he can find pleasure in this at all, until Zeus’ driving force overcomes him, hits some place within him that fractures light and makes him dizzy with an awful pain-pleasure. 

Ganymede can hear himself moan, and he hates it with his whole heart. He’s half-hard too, cock leaking against his stomach and against his will. But Zeus ignores that. He lets the arousal wash over Ganymede and does not even extend a hand to help him, and Ganymede cannot bring himself to touch his own erection, tamp down this horrifying buzz of pleasure-wrongness in his core. Ganymede finds himself wishing Zeus would, insensate with pleasure, show him his godly aspect, and burn him to ashes, send him scattered on the wind. Fire could not hurt more than the dull, aching wrongness of this violation. 

Zeus whispers filthy things in his ear and Ganymede listens, furious with himself for doing so, for not fighting (and could he even ever hope to fight a god?), and all the while, his back arches, and the god coaxes moans from his lips. If he could vanish into the air, he would. At least then he would not feel so much. 

Perhaps, the favorites of the gods who became stars were the lucky ones. They gleam brightly above, set like decorations in the firmament, life gone, breath gone, motion gone. It must be like a prison, dwelling in the cold void of night. But those favorites thrown aside will never have to feel again, and Ganymede envies them that as Zeus twines his fingers in his hair, and finally seems to notice the state of his prize. 

“Don’t touch it,” he says, looking at Ganymede’s stiff cock. “I’ll bring this to an end, my dear. 

But he only goes faster and faster, until Ganymede is aching with it, until he cannot bear it any longer, and he comes in miserable spurts of white fluid, his body heaving with it, his stomach roiling in his throat. Zeus follows suit, coming at last with a stuttering series of thrusts, and a powerful, thunderous noise. Ganymede feels him spend inside his body, then pull out. 

“You, beloved, are miraculous,” he says at last, his voice still thick with lust. “I want you all over again. You could make a god mortal with that mouth.” 

Ganymede just lies back upon the stained linen. He feels empty, like his soul’s been pulled out of his body, already started on its dark journey to the underworld, and he cannot help but wish it had. 

“As you wish, Lord Zeus,” he says in a thin, pinched voice he scarcely registers as his. 

This is his life now, he supposes. He’ll have to get used to it. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit weird source-wise, by which I mean I had Ovid on the brain while writing it, but tossed in a soupçon of Classical Athenian sexual mores re: roles. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> Title is from Christopher Marlowe's _Dido, Queen of Carthage_.


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